Dragon Warrior Tales
by Gigette
Summary: A collection of short stories about a panda and his friends.


"Hey dad," Po began, a soft tremor in his voice.

Ping chopped away at his vegetables in the kitchen, far too focused to stop, but responded in acknowledgment. "What is it, my son?"

"I was just...wondering..."

"Yes? Speak up, Po." Ping's replies were speedy, in hopes that his son would mimic them.

"I was down at the market today and–"

Ping suddenly pushes away from his cutting board in glee, turning to look at son. He had been itching to buy more groceries for days now, and Po had offered to do the shopping for him earlier that morning. It had struck him as odd, however, that his son had arrived so late. "Ah! Did you pick up my cabbages?"

It was only then did Ping realize the somberness of his tone, followed by his hunched posture and glossy eyes. Po was obviously hurt, and for a boy of his stature to come home this way was something that concerned him. He'd always been very good at fighting off bullies and thieves that occasionally lurked the noodle shop, so what kind of beast could have done this to his son?

Ping set his knife aside and wiped his wings on his apron before approaching his son. "Po, what happened?"

"Do you think I'm too big?"

The question was blunt, and a bit unclear to the goose. "_What?_"

Po's feet shuffled in embarrassment, his eyes now torn away from his father and on to his own belly. "I was out for groceries and I overheard some ladies talking about my weight. You don't think I'm...I don't know, fat for my age?"

_Fat. _What a strong word he had used. Never had Ping used it to describe Po, although many others may have. Po was a teenager now, a growing boy, and ate five times the servings of his regular customers. In fact, the main reason Ping needed to go to market each week was because of Po's fast and developing metabolism. All this aside, Ping never saw his son's weight as a problem. He was a panda after all, and he assumed that all boys at his age would eat as often and as much as he did. He didn't mind that he had to pay extra to specially purchase clothes for him, or that sometimes the bamboo furniture would break under his son's heft. He didn't even care that Po would help himself to eating the left overs of customers' soups when it was time to clean up (Ping would usually pour them all in a pot for tomorrow's soup as a means to save money). His large size had never occurred to him until this very moment. The word "fat" rang through his ears, ugly and harsh. It was a word to describe objects, like a "fat sack or rice" or a "fat lump sum of money", but never a person, and especially not his son.

Ping had been in his own thoughts for a long time and saw his son patiently awaiting an answer. He cleared his throat and searched beneath the crates of vegetables where he kept his recipes. He pulled aside a large, aged book, red in color with golden tinted pages. "Po, do you remember the story of the ox and and peacock princess?"

Po rolled his eyes and sighed. "Dad, I don't really think this is the time for–"

"Hush," his father snapped, "there is always time for a lesson." He turned the pages between his feathers, coughing slightly with the dust that flew by. Finally he had reached the page he had been looking for, and adjusted the book in front of him where his son could see. On the pages were Chinese characters, as well as hand drawn paintings of a tiny peacock and a large ox. "It was one of your favorites when you were just a boy. Long ago, there was a beautiful peacock princess, who wore the finest silk dresses and jade jewelry. Her parents made sure that everything she owned was beautiful, just like her. Her clothes, her furniture, her palace! They even ordered that only the most handsome peacocks could guard her home."

Ping turned the page toward a picture of a lovely peacock soaring above her equally lovely palace. Po, nostalgic, sat down and listened to his father, unanticipatedly enchanted.

Ping grinned, always proud of how he could win his son over with his fables. "One day, a very large and dirty ox came to their palace in hopes of finding a place to stay. 'Please let me stay here,' cried the ox, 'and I will repay you in whatever way I can.' But the peacock king and queen were offended by his smell and looks, and refused. 'A beast as ugly as you is not even fit to roam outside the palace. Leave now!' And the ox left, heart broken."

Po frowned at the picture of the two peacocks sending the ox away. "Jerks."

"_Hush_, Po! Now, later that day, a tribe of wicked tigers arrived. They caused havoc among a nearby village, and soon found the palace ripe for thieving. The guards, though handsome, were weak and frail, and were easily defeated by the tribe. The palace walls, though beautiful, were thin and fragile, and were easily broken into. The peacock queen and king feared for their precious daughter's life, when suddenly, the same large ox returned. He promised to protect the princess, and with his size and strength, drove away the tiger tribe."

Po cheered with delight, his fists punching in all directions. "Alright ox-man! No time for talks 'cause I'm an ox, oxen and boxin'! Ox man to the..." He caught sight of his irritated father, blushed, and settled down. "Sorry."

Ping cleared his throat and continued. "The peacocks saw the errors of their ways and thanked the ox. 'We would offer you our home, but it perished under the tigers' destruction.' The ox smiled and said, 'Fear not. I will help rebuild your home, protect your princess and guard your palace, if you may allow me a place within it.' The peacocks agreed, and soon the palace was rebuilt with bricks, and thanks to the powerful ox, never bothered by bandits or thieves again." The final page of the story displayed the new, sturdy palace, and the ox eating alongside the peacock family.

"Soooo, in other words, beauty is on the inside. Right? Or something like that. Actually, wait a minute, I think that's the ugly duckling's moral–"

"It teaches you many morals, my son!" He exclaims, shutting the book and placing it aside. "A good heart is a strong heart. Don't judge a book by its cover. Usefulness is more important than beauty. But what I want you to know," he says softly, "is that you're perfect to me."

Po perks up at the sound of this, his eyes crinkled and his smile wide with pride. He then frowns, aware of it all too quickly. "Wait, that isn't the moral of the story. You could have told me that in the beginning and skipped the fable completely!"

"I could have," Ping admits with a laugh, "but I love story telling! And you love hearing them, so shush. Now listen to me, Po. You may be bigger than most boys your age, and you can be expensive to feed during festival season," Ping laughs, "but I could never ask for a better son than you. Whenever I need to bring in the crates of new bowls for the shop, who is there to help me?"

"Me."

"And if I ever run into some irresponsible hoodlums, who can I count on to protect me?"

"Me!"

Ping nods, patting his son's proud stomach, watching his towering son fall on his back and giggle uncontrollably at the light feel of his feathers. "Who will eat the left over dumplings I am too proud to throw away?"

"_Ooh_! That reminds me, anyone leave any today?"

"Po, those women were just gossipy nobodies. Never let anyone think you're less than perfect. You're a strong, growing boy, and anyone who disagrees will have to go through me!" He starts to flick his wings back and forth, his methods childish, but his gaze intense.

The panda chuckles again, this time at his father's soft interpretation of kung fu. He takes his father into his arms and leans in for a panda hug. "Thanks, dad."

Ping returns the embrace wholeheartedly. "Anytime, son. Now, who wants a big pot of noodle soup?"

"I don't know dad, maybe just half a pot this time? I could lose a few pounds."

Ping waves him off, almost offended by his son's suggestions. "Nonsense! You're so thin. I can almost put my wings around you! How about a pot of noodle soup, _and_ a big helping of my famous bean buns?"

Po ties a bib around his neck, wiping a bit of drool off his chin. "Alright, _now _you're talkin'!"


End file.
